


Dens

by INMH



Series: hc_bingo fanfiction fills 2020 [26]
Category: The Order: 1886
Genre: Angst, Drama, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Strong Language, Witch Hunts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:15:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25926508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/INMH/pseuds/INMH
Summary: Fruits of Mercy Series. Grayson and Alastair narrowly escape a raid.
Relationships: Alastair D'Argyll/Grayson
Series: hc_bingo fanfiction fills 2020 [26]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1789369
Kudos: 6





	Dens

**[-The First of November, 1887-]**  
  
“Gray, get up.”  
  
Grayson snapped awake, hand shooting for his gun before another one quickly clamped down on it.  
  
Alastair was standing beside the bed; the gray light of the early morning was streaming in through the window. Once he knew he’d been recognized, Alastair took his hand away, a finger to his lips. “You scared the life out of me,” Grayson hissed.  
  
“You look pretty lively to me.”  
  
“What are you-?”  
  
Oh, right: Alastair had pulled him out of a Vampire den full of opium-riddled, blood-sucking lunatics the night before.  
  
“We need to leave: The authorities are doing a raid in the area.”  
  
The words lit a fire under Grayson the way ‘Lycan attack’ used to. He jumped out of bed and dressed quickly whilst Alastair kept a careful watch on the street from the window. “How close?” Grayson whispered as he pulled on his shirt.  
  
“We’ve a few minutes yet- but hurry.”  
  
Once he was dressed, there were a few minutes of panicked double-checking to ensure that nothing had been left behind: No weapons, no extraneous pieces of clothing, no personal affects whatsoever. Once there was reasonable certainty that nothing had been left behind, they slipped into the hallway, out a window, and onto the rooftops. They were closer to Whitechapel than not, and the buildings grew closer together the closer one got to the impoverished districts of the city.  
  
“Do you remember,” Alastair mumbled once they had put some distance between themselves and the raid, “When it was us doing this?”  
  
Grayson nodded, silent as he watched the authorities move down the street. He remembered it well, and there was a hell to being on the other side of it now. “I see no Knights, only police.”  
  
“This is a search for rebels, then,” Alastair said.  
  
“The Order has urged the authorities to up their raids in the last year,” Grayson confirmed. “I expect they’re looking for me. They know I’m with the rebels, and undoubtedly they suspect that I’m handing over all of their secrets.”  
  
“You mean you haven’t?”  
  
Grayson did a double-take, but then considered the logic in Alastair’s words: After having been assumed a traitor and left to miserable torture and death from the men and women he had once considered friends and comrades, it was not unreasonable to suggest that Grayson might feel compelled to exact some vengeance in the form of spilling some of the Order’s darkest secrets. “I have told them only of things that would better help the rebels avoid detection,” Grayson said carefully. “Nothing more.”  
  
Alastair did not offer a response, but in spite of his question, Grayson suspected that his conduct had been roughly the same; after all, Alastair had refused to disclose the secret of the Blackwater to Lord Hastings _and_ his Lycan brethren, and there had been no devastating attacks on the Order from the Lycans that Grayson was aware of. No, whatever their issues were with their former order and its business, it turned his stomach to think of betraying those he had called friends and comrades for so many, _many_ years in such a way.  
  
“How long do you suppose they’ll keep up the search?” Alastair asked. He’d come to lean on the crumbling wall of the adjoining building’s roof, arms crossed and head turned to keep an eye on the raid. “Or, I should say, how long do you think _we_ can keep this up?” He turned, eyes meeting Grayson’s. “Unless we are killed in action or stop taking the Blackwater, we will eventually be caught. Our Order has a long memory.”  
  
They did. By God, they did.  
  
Running ultimately did little other than delaying the inevitable. “I suppose a third option would be that they give up, or we reach a truce.”  
  
Alastair snorted. “Unlikely- especially for the Half-breeds, given our historical enmity with one another.”  
  
…Right, right, the nature of the Order’s conflict with Grayson was somewhat different than the one they would have with Alastair.  
  
“Perhaps we ought to leave, then,” Grayson remarked. “We may be caught one day, but not today, I think.”  
  
Alastair sighed. “I don’t especially desire to return to my den right now.”  
  
“Even with the Order at your back?” Grayson asked lightly.  
  
“Even with the Order at my back.”  
  
Grayson could have left without him, but he did not. He sat down, crossed his legs, and leaned back against a water-filled barrel near the ledge. “Has Hastings been back to harass you about the Blackwater again?”  
  
Alastair rubbed his eyes. “Not yet.”  
  
It was obvious, even if he didn’t express it, that Alastair was distressed. As a man allegedly killed by Grayson, if he were found by the Order it would lead to terrible revelations that he would rather avoid; but now that he’d caused some friction with Hastings and his fellow Lycans, his options were growing thinner and thinner by the day. Grayson saw the bags under his eyes and the little anxious tics that Alastair used to be far better at suppressing, like pulling at the buttons on his jacket or compulsively scratching the back of his neck.  
  
“My offer still stands,” Grayson muttered, confident that Alastair would still hear. “If you find yourself in any trouble, from the Knights or from your fellow Half-breeds, I will help in whatever way I can.”  
  
Alastair sighed again. “Thank you, Grayson, but I’m not certain how much assistance you would reasonably be able to offer.”  
  
“Well, I can-”  
**_  
BANG._**  
  
They both started at the gunshot, and then rolled onto their stomachs and kept their heads down.  
  
A few more shots rang out. “Are we actually looking at a Rebel hideout, Grayson?” Alastair asked, bewildered.  
  
“Not that I’m aware of,” Grayson returned, equally surprised, “But it could simply be a drunkard with a gun- or a sympathizer I’m not aware of.”  
  
“What of you and yours? Any unexpected visits from the authorities or the Knights recently?”  
  
“No, we are fairly well-hidden. We’re not concerned about being located.”  
_  
You used to be a better liar than that,_ Grayson wanted to say, the words on the tip of his tongue because it was _agonizingly_ obvious that not a single word in that sentence was true. Hunting Half-breeds was the Order’s natural state, and it followed that increased searches for the Rebels would imply a higher risk of discovery for the Half-breeds of London as well.  
  
He wondered, but didn’t dare say aloud to Alastair, if perhaps the Order’s renewed and damn near fanatic interest in the Rebellion had anything to do with Isabeau. Lafayette had hinted as much back in April when they had met at _Aux Belles Muses_ , the only time that they had seen each other since Grayson had returned to London. He had said that Isabeau was ready to kill Grayson for his perceived betrayal and murder of Alastair- which had become obvious in her attempt to incinerate him in July- but perhaps Isabeau was now pushing the Order to be more aggressive in their pursuit of the Rebels, of their turncoat former Knight and his new allies.  
  
No, Alastair had enough concerns without worry about his sister coming for his head.  
  
But Grayson would have to give contingency plans more thought, because Alastair was right: The noose _was_ tightening on the necks of London’s underground population, political dissidents and Half-breeds alike. And there might come a time when it would be more prudent to flee than to hunker down and hide.  
  
“What are your feelings on America?”  
  
Alastair turned, raised an eyebrow at him. “In what respect?”  
  
“To go to, should Britain no longer be… Feasible.”  
  
“Britain, not just England.”  
  
“Right.” As long as they were in the commonwealth, the Order would have more access than they would otherwise.  
  
Alastair sighed. “There are… Well, _allegedly_ , a lack of Half-breeds in North America. I suppose there would be more places to hide, less obvious places for any interested parties to come looking.” His head rolled to the side, eyes fixed on Grayson’s. “Are we talking about moving our peoples, or just yourself and I?”  
  
Grayson shrugged lightly. “It would depend on the circumstances.”  
  
Alastair smirked. “But you would go to America with me?”  
  
“You are not the worst companion I have ever had.”  
  
“Well, now I’m curious: Who, pray tell, was so terrible a companion that he outweighs _me_ , the man who betrayed and attempted to murder you?”  
  
“We do not have nearly the time to cover the length of my history and all I’ve met during it,” Grayson said, mostly because the subject of his time as a homeless, orphaned urchin prior to Sebastien finding him was not one he enjoyed returning to if he could help it. There had been several people throughout his long life that had hurt and betrayed him, and none of them were nearly as apologetic about it as Alastair was. “Besides, you have redeemable qualities.”  
  
“Like my willingness to fuck you?”  
  
Grayson’s cheeks heated slightly. There had been a time when Alastair had been reluctant to engage in even the lightest of rough talk, and now he seemed to delight in Grayson’s reaction to his blunt language. “Yes, that’s one of them.”  
  
Alastair chuckled. “Just one of them, of course.”  
**_  
BANG. BANG._**  
  
Loud shouts, closer this time.  
  
Grayson deftly rose to his feet. “It would be better if we left, I think.”  
  
Alastair sighed, climbing to his feet and backing away from the ledge. “If we must, we must. It has been a treat, Grayson, yanking you from a Vampire’s opium den was certainly one of the more entertaining experiences of my life-”  
  
Grayson offered him a rude gesture, and Alastair laughed.  
  
“-but perhaps don’t do it again, I might not be in the neighborhood next time to save you from certain death by Vampire- _again._ ”  
  
Grayson offered another rude gesture, marching to the other side of the roof. “Good day to you, Alastair,” he remarked flatly before hopping off the side onto a lower roof, intending to make an easier progression to the street.  
  
“Gray!”  
  
Grayson looked back up; Alastair was leaning over the edge of the roof. “I wouldn’t mind going to America… or anywhere else… with you, if it came to it,” he said. “It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, to live someplace other than England for a time.”  
  
“No it wouldn’t,” Grayson agreed. As Knights they had only left their homeland on occasion for missions and wars, and rarely did they live in a foreign land long enough to call it home; England was home. “If the situation with your fellows becomes unsalvageable, then we can speak further on it.”  
  
“And your fellows?”  
  
“Hm?”  
  
“You said if it became unsalvageable with _my_ fellows we would speak more on it, but what of yours? Would your Queen be so happy to see you leave?”  
  
Grayson met his eyes, considering his words carefully. No, in truth, Lakshmi would not be happy to see him leave: They had become friends as well as allies across these many turbulent months. And she would doubtlessly be suspicious if Grayson abruptly decided to leave the country, especially if she were to find out that Alastair was involved.  
  
But he got the gist of the question:  
_  
You would leave the Rebellion to go with me?_  
  
“No,” Grayson said. “But I would, if it came to it.”  
  
Lakshmi and her Rebels could survive without him.  
  
He was not entirely convinced that Alastair could, given his circumstances.  
  
Alastair’s lip curled into something that could have been a smile, but it was hard to tell from the early-morning light and the angle. “We’ll talk soon, Gray.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
Grayson retreated to the bowels of Whitechapel, resisting the urge to look over his shoulder the whole way.  
  
-End


End file.
